


Domestic Happiness, Thou Only Bliss Of Paradise That Hath Survived The Fall

by ladypigswagon



Series: Tumblr Prompts [15]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Future Fic, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Sirens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-11 22:05:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4454099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladypigswagon/pseuds/ladypigswagon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles isn’t quite sure how this happened. He certainly doesn’t remember volunteering for this particular mission and yet here he is, playing house with Peter Hale of all people. White picket fence, yellow front door, mailbox with their names on it. It’s incredibly surreal.</p><p> </p><p>Stiles isn’t sure how they’re going to successfully pull off a newlywed couple either. Just because he’s finally grown into his body and isn’t a gangly youth anymore doesn’t mean that he looks old enough to pull this off. He’s 24, barely out of Hogwarts (Deaton always sighs heavily when Stiles refers to his emissary training as Hogwarts) and he’s now fake married to Peter because they are the only single members of the pack. Stiles thinks that because they were the only single members that the job should have been fobbed off to one of them but apparently not. Apparently Stiles status as a spark means he’s the only one who can defeat the siren. Deaton had said something cryptic about werewolves being too easily influenced by high pitch frequencies. Something like that. Basically Stiles is the chosen one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Domestic Happiness, Thou Only Bliss Of Paradise That Hath Survived The Fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mysenia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mysenia/gifts).



> Mysenia said to ladypigswagon:  
> If you're taking prompts, Steter for "I'm sorry that I got way too into playing house and accidentally kissed you passionately." Thanks! :)
> 
> Originally posted on tumblr and I LOVE FAKE DATING SO MUCH so I decided to post it here too.

Stiles isn’t quite sure how this happened. He certainly doesn’t remember volunteering for this particular mission and yet here he is, playing house with Peter Hale of all people. White picket fence, yellow front door, mailbox with their names on it. It’s incredibly surreal.

 

Stiles isn’t sure how they’re going to successfully pull off a newlywed couple either. Just because he’s finally grown into his body and isn’t a gangly youth anymore doesn’t mean that he looks old enough to pull this off. He’s 24, barely out of Hogwarts (Deaton always sighs heavily when Stiles refers to his emissary training as Hogwarts) and he’s now fake married to Peter because they are the only single members of the pack. Stiles thinks that because they were the only single members that the job should have been fobbed off to one of couples but apparently not. Apparently Stiles status as a spark means he’s the only one who can defeat the siren. Deaton had said something cryptic about werewolves being too easily influenced by high pitch frequencies. Something like that. Basically Stiles is the chosen one.

 

Also Derek is single but he’s not being Stiles fake husband. Stiles isn’t quite sure how Peter got roped into this. It’s left him very puzzled but currently he is more puzzled by Peter cooking. Peter can cook. In the eight years Stiles has known Peter, he has never seen him cook. It’s disconcerting. Stiles feels disconcerted. Also Peter likes to walk around the house barefoot. That’s even stranger. They’ve only been a _married_ couple for about two hours and already Stiles has found out more about Peter than he has in the last freaking eight years.

 

“So,” Stiles says breaking the comfortable silence whilst he stares at his new wedding ring, “We have to pretend to be a newly married couple in order to entice the siren who wants to entice one or both of us from this marriage.”

 

“So nice to know you were paying attention when Derek laid out the plan,” Peter quips, dicing carrots into small chunks to add to the bolognaise sauce.

 

“And you have no problem with this,” Stiles says, arms opening in a gesture that implies that he very much has a problem with this. Surely Peter doesn’t want to be fake married to him. Stiles isn’t entirely sure he’d want to be fake married to himself.

 

“Stiles,” Peter says, turning away from the stove, “We have a job to do, perhaps it is best if you stop overthinking it and just get on with it.”

 

Stiles opens his mouth to reply but closes it with a click when he realizes that what Peter is saying makes a lot of sense. This siren has already killed two people; they really don’t have time to discuss the intricacies of why Stiles and Peter have been paired up. Although after this is all over, Stiles is going to have a long discussion with Derek about his decision making process.

 

“You should be grateful it’s me Stiles,” Peter says, returning his attention to the stove and fiddling with the hob, “Derek is a notoriously awful cook. I imagine that if the siren didn’t kill you then Derek’s attempt at lasagna would.”

 

Stiles snorts. He catches the edge of Peter’s grin and it’s a genuine one, instead of the usual snarling smirk that typically decorates Peter’s face. Stiles isn’t sure it’ll be plain sailing but at least they share a dry sense of humor. If nothing else, their fake marriage can be built on being salty about things together. Salt mates as opposed to soul mates. Stiles is sure he can live with that.

 

 

 

The neighbors keep bringing them baked goods. Stiles isn’t sure the fridge or cupboards can handle another batch of brownies or a whole pie. News of the newly married gay couple that moved into number 4 spread quickly around the neighborhood. Stiles is hoping that the pack will come round for ‘dinner’ and he’ll be able to offload some of them. It’s becoming a problem.

 

“Oh a pie,” Stiles says, voice ringing with false glee. The stepford couple in front of him smile in unison and wow that’s actually terrifying. Stiles didn’t know it was possible to have teeth whiter than the ceramic teapot that Peter had produced from nowhere yesterday. They had tea together and read books in the garden. Peter is actually tending to the garden as if he genuinely cares. Stiles is famous for killing plants so he’s staying far away.

 

“We are just here to welcome you to the neighborhood,” the wife says cheerily. She’s so blonde that Stiles think’s the sun is reflecting off the strands. Her husband is wearing tennis whites, which clash with his teeth.

 

“Welcome neighbor,” He says, “I’m Jim, this is my wife Betty. It’s just so nice to have new people in our little street. It would be real swell if you would join us for dinner this week. Thursday ok for you folks?”

 

“Err…” Stiles replies, eloquent as usual. He stands there clutching the pie and wondering how to politely decline.

 

“Another pie, how thoughtful.” Peter’s voice drifts over Stiles left shoulder. It's testament to how used to Peter that Stiles has become in their brief time together than he doesn’t jump out of his skin.

 

“You must be the husband,” Betty coos. Jim sticks out his hand for Peter to shake. Peter to his credit shakes it amicably rather than ripping it off which Stiles suspected might be an actual concern. Peter can be charming and suave when he wants to be. To Stiles it makes him look more like a predator. Maybe because Stiles knows that Peter is a predator hiding in plain sight.

 

“Peter,” Peter says, retracting his hand. He puts it round Stiles waist under his shirt to touch the skin, tugging him close. Stiles heart speeds up only briefly before he gets it under control. Happy married couple. Supposed to like the touching thing. Peter’s hand is warm against Stiles side.

 

“Jim and this is my wife Betty. We were just asking your husband here if you wouldn’t mind joining us for dinner some time this week. Betty makes a mean meatloaf.”

 

Peter smiles in a way that if Stiles were an unsuspecting civilian, would cause his brain to turn to mush and his legs to jello.

 

“Well, we’ll just have to look at our calendar won’t we darling?”

 

It takes Stiles a few seconds to realize that darling means him. Oh joy, pet names.

 

“We certainly will snookum.”

 

Ha, two can play at that game. Peter’s claws prick Stiles side but Stiles plasters a grin on his face and ignores it. Betty and Jim look simply delighted with this display of intimacy.

 

“Well aren’t you two just the cutest,” Betty says. She pinches Stiles cheek. It hurts more than the claws. “We’re just down the road at number 8, come round anytime for a slice of pie. And we must have dinner soon.”

 

“Yes,” Stiles says brightly, “Dinner. Wonderful.”

 

Betty and Jim wave as they leave, creepy grins back on their faces. Stiles is very happy to shut the door on them.

 

“Where are we going to put this?” Stiles asks, grimacing at the pie.

 

“Snookum?” Peter enquires, voice sharper than a razors edge.

 

“Darling,” Stiles retorts. He holds the pie away from him as if it personally offends him. Which in fairness it does. There’s something about it that just doesn’t sit right with him. It might be that Stiles has been mentally blinded by the whiteness of Mr. and Mrs. Creep’s teeth.

 

“Point taken sweetheart,” Peter replies. He takes the pie from Stiles, wandering into the kitchen and binning it. Stiles ignores the sweetheart; Peter has called nearly the entire pack sweetheart at some point. Mostly when he’s being a dick. It’s a consistent part of Peter’s dialect.

 

“So um,” Stiles says, leaning against the kitchen counter as Peter begins to deposit more pies into the bin. “How long before the siren tries to seduce us?”

 

Peter pauses, cherry pie from the Abbotts from number 12 in his hand. They were a nice couple. Even if their children stared at Peter as if he was going to eat them. Again another genuine concern.

 

“I have no idea,” Peter finally says, “Perhaps we need to integrate ourselves into the community a bit more in order to be noticed.”

 

“Furthermore,” Stiles says, tapping a finger against his chin, “How do we know we’ll be targeted?”

 

Peter ties the top of the trash bag into a neat bow.

 

“A spark and a werewolf,” He says, heaving it out to take to outside to the garbage. “We’ll be like catnip.”

 

 

They settle into a routine after that and before Stiles knows it, three weeks have passed. Peter is startlingly easy to live with. He cooks, Stiles cleans and they both go grocery shopping. Occasionally Peter will allow Stiles to sneak a bag of Cheetos into the shopping cart. Mostly they buy organic goods, as processed food is abhorrent to Peter’s senses. It’s also a good way to immerse themselves into the strange suburban community because the grocery store is frequented by practically the entire street. Except Jim and Betty for which Stiles is eternally grateful. They are simply too creepy for words. Betty also keeps bringing over pies all the time in some weird attempt to entice Peter and Stiles into her house through the medium of food.

 

Stiles hates to admit it but being fake married to Peter isn’t too bad. They are very similar in interests allowing them to have interesting conversations. They’ve learned more about each other than in the entire eight years of acquaintanceship. Peter brings Stiles a coffee every morning with the creamer stirred in anticlockwise twice. Stiles discovers that Peter has a weakness for RuPaul’s drag race, which leads to many fun evenings cuddled up on the sofa. Stiles is trying to avoid thinking about the cuddling. Peter mentioned that the siren would know they weren’t a couple if Stiles didn’t have Peter’s scent on him.

 

So they touch but nothing too intimate. They sleep in the same bed but they remain resolutely on their respective sides. Frequent reassuring touches throughout the day, a hand on a shoulder or a pat on the back. Peter scent marks Stiles every morning and night and before they leave the house. It consists of a long hug with Peter nuzzling Stiles neck and cheek. They don’t kiss. Ever.

 

When they are seen in public, they hold hands and in coffee shops they interlock their ankles. To the casual observer, they look like a happily married couple. But the siren has yet to reveal itself. Thankfully it hasn’t killed anyone else so there is a consolation prize.

 

“I don’t know Derek,” Stiles says tiredly. Derek is frustrated with their lack of progress and Stiles can sympathize but there isn’t a lot he can do about it. He tells Derek so.

 

“Do something,” Derek growls. Somehow it sounds deeper and rougher down the phone, “I don’t like you being away from the pack for this long. The wards are going to need refreshing soon.”

 

“Good to know my services as your personal wizard are appreciated,” Stiles snaps. He hangs up on Derek spluttering an apology. He’s fuming but mostly frustrated. He misses the pack. He misses his dad, who is currently on his honeymoon with Melissa and blissfully unaware of his son’s fake marriage. He misses Scott trying to bring injured animals from the vets into the house, thinking Allison and Isaac won’t notice. He misses Erica and Boyd bickering over their wedding plans. He misses talking to Lydia and her constant attempts to improve his wardrobe. He misses teasing Derek and seeing the Alpha honest to god smile. He even misses Jackson.

 

Peter comes into the kitchen, wrapping his arms around Stiles waist. Stiles relaxes into the hold almost instantly. Peter hooks his chin onto Stiles shoulder and nuzzles him gently. Peter is always gentle in his touches.

 

“Is our alpha unsatisfied with our progress?” Peter murmurs against Stiles skin.

 

“Our alpha can shove it,” Stiles grumbles. Peter chuckles. When his laugh isn’t snide or cruel in nature then Peter actually has quite a nice laugh. He also has a great singing voice.

 

“I miss the pack,” Stiles says.

 

“So do I,” Peter replies, “But at least we have each other. Our pack connection is still strong.”

 

Stiles makes a soft hmm noise.

 

“Come on,” Peter says, nuzzling his cheek against Stiles, “We should go to bed. Strategize in the morning.”

 

Stiles allows himself to be lead to bed by Peter, ignoring the implications of that particular train of thought.

 

 

Stiles takes it too far in the grocery store. He isn’t even aware of why he thought it was the best idea at the moment but it was the idea that he followed through, which in retrospect is a clear demonstration of why Stiles shouldn’t come up with plans on the fly.

 

The facts were these. Stiles is listening to Peter drone on about the importance of checking organic produce before purchase or something like that when he spots Betty advancing down the aisle. Stiles panics, because he makes it his mission to avoid the woman at all costs and he figured that the grocery store was the only place she didn’t go. Apparently not. She’s coming closer. Stiles is mentally flailing whereas Peter is sniffing grapefruits and is unaware of the impending doom. Peter turns to face Stiles, placing the grapefruit into the cart. They are standing next to each other, close enough to touch. Stiles isn’t sure which synapses were misfiring for him to come up with what he did next.

 

He grabs Peter’s face and kisses him. It’s sloppy at first because Peter is caught completely unawares but soon enough Peter is responding, hands clutching Stiles waist to bring him flush against him. Stiles goes pliant in Peter’s hands, mouth opening so that Peter’s tongue can lick inside. Peter nips at Stiles lips, one hand reaching lower to clutch Stiles ass. Stiles moans, his own hands gripping Peter’s V-neck. Peter growls in return like the wolf he is.

 

“Gentlemen, don’t you think this is a bit heated for the grocery store?” Betty’s sharp, irritating voice cuts through the hazy, lust fog that Stiles was currently in. He breaks apart from Peter, blushing crimson and staring at his hands. Peter lets him go, plastering on a charming grin though his pupils are blown wide with want.

 

“Stiles has no sense of delayed gratification,” Peter jokes, smoothing down his V-neck. Stiles wants to die, right here, right now. He hopes Scott will remember to put something funny on his gravestone.

 

“Well,” Betty says, hand clapping down on Peter’s forearm in a way that makes Stiles insides churn, “A little passion is needed for now and again. While I’ve got you, you boys must come to dinner this Friday. Jim just had a big merger go through and we’re having a little dinner party to celebrate. You must come.”

 

“Sure,” Peter says. Stiles manages to keep his mouth shut but it is in serious danger of falling open. He subtly kicks Peter, thankful that the shopping cart hides his foot. It hurts him more than Peter.

 

“Wonderful,” Betty practically screeches, clapping her hands together, “Our house at seven, don’t be late.”

 

She bustles away, hips swaying and tennis skirt swishing. Once she’s out of sight, Stiles rounds on Peter.

 

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” Stiles hisses, “How could you possibly want to spend an evening with them? Especially Betty, that woman never leaves us alone.”

 

“Exactly Stiles,” Peter drawls, “The fact that she never leaves us alone is why we are going.”

 

It all clicks into place.

 

“Oh,” Stiles says, elongating the sound. “Siren got it.” He turns his attention back to the shopping list he was supposed to be in charge of so that they won’t discuss what transpired just now.

 

“Stiles,” Peter begins, voice low and somewhat husky.  


“You know I think we missed cucumber,” Stiles replies, voice somewhat hysterical, “Yeah, no definitely missed it. I’ll just go get that.”

 

Stiles speed walks away, the tips of his ears burning and his mind thoroughly beating the remembered feeling of Peter lips against his into a squishy pulp before tucking it away in a dark corner never to be thought of again.

 

 

The rest of the week is spent preparing for Friday’s dinner, in case Betty really is the siren. All the research and evidence certainly points that way, Betty and Jim had thrown two parties a day before the victims were found and those victims were people that frequented their social circle. Thankfully Peter doesn’t bring up the kiss and Stiles is definitely never going to. Sometimes at night, Stiles can feel the ghost of Peter’s hand against his skin or the press of his soft lips against Stiles forehead. He resolutely ignores it.

 

“Remember, don’t eat or drink anything she hands you,” Stiles hisses, “Her venom is what will get you first.”

 

“I know Stiles,” Peter snaps, pushing the doorbell with a little more force than was probably needed. Stiles is shifting from foot to foot, a bottle of wine grasped in his hand that Peter snatches off him, for fear of it breaking. The door swings open, Betty’s bleached teeth blinding them both.

 

“Welcome neighbors, come in, come in.”

 

She ushers them in, issuing endless platitudes and thanking them for the bottle. Stiles suddenly becomes hyperaware of the knife that’s strapped to his thigh. The whole house is decorated like any WASP’s would be. Tasteful and practically dripping with money. Betty is a trophy wife to a her husband which you know, is fine in Stiles book. He’s all for feminism and respecting that women can do whatever the fuck they want, it just seems like unusual cover for a siren. Typically they are solitary creatures.

 

Stiles fiddles with the hem of his shirt as Betty leads them into the garden where practically the whole neighborhood is gathered. Peter is the social butterfly, flitting between groups of people and charming every single person. Stiles on the other hand, finds a quiet corner to observe. He’s not built for this kind of undercover work, the tendency to run his mouth is a habit that just will not go away.

 

Betty, like Peter, is flitting about, making sure that everyone feels welcome. Stiles watches her carefully, but it doesn’t look like she’s put her venom into any of the drinks or food, which either come directly from the bartenders or the waiters. Unless she’s done so beforehand but given that she hasn’t been in the kitchen since the caterer’s arrived (not that Stiles was watching), it seems unlikely. It’s frustrating.

 

Stiles catches Peter’s deep, rich laugh. He looks across to see Peter smiling at a handsome, black boy who is approximately Stiles age. The boy is stroking Peter’s arm in a suggestive manner. Peter catches Stiles eyes. There is a smugness there and a strange coldness that Stiles can’t quite identify. Peter turns his attention back to the boy, smiling in a way that Stiles has never seen before. Stiles ignores the churning of his stomach.

 

“Well, that’s just not right.”

 

Stiles turns to find Betty at his side. She’s watching Peter and her look reeks of disapproval.

 

“Does he do this often?” Betty asks, placing a hand on the crook of Stiles elbow. Stiles shrugs, trying to pretend he doesn’t care when in fact he does. The fact that those are his real feelings is something that Stiles will examine later. Preferably with Lydia over a huge pint of ice cream.

 

“Oh sweetie,” Betty says in tone that normally Stiles would find grating, “Come on, I know what’ll cheer you up. A nice slice of pie, I’ve been saving a lovely cherry almond one.”

 

Stiles allows himself to be lead away, hoping that she’ll reveal herself to be the siren so Stiles can stab her, bury her and go home. He’s tired of playing house with Peter. They enter the spotless kitchen, which is somehow a brighter white than Betty’s teeth. Betty ducks into the fridge, bringing out the pie. She puts it on the island in the middle of the kitchen then goes to the knife rack beside the sink to retrieve a sharp knife. Stiles moves the one strapped to his thigh to his hand, hiding it from view. Betty cuts a large slice of pie, places it on a plate then takes it to the microwave to heat it up.

 

“So when did you make this?” Stiles asks, mentally preparing himself to calculate how strong the venom will be.

 

“Well I’ll let you into a little secret,” Betty says. The microwave dings. She removes the pie and places it in front of Stiles. The scent of warm cherry and almond tingles Stiles senses. Betty hunts for a fork. “Truth is, I’m useless in the kitchen. I can’t even make a slice of toast. Jim is the one who bakes all the pies bless him. He doesn’t like to brag, thinks that it’s unmanly but I always think he should be proud of his achievements. I just sprinkle sugar on top and that’s my contribution over.”

 

This is it. She’ll sprinkle sugar and bam Stiles will be whammied into being in love with her and that’s when he’ll get eaten. But he’s wily to her plot. The knife is gripped in his hand, hidden in the sleeve of his plaid shirt. Betty is reaching for the sugar.

 

“Betty dear,” Jim says, entering the kitchen wiping his hands on a towel, “The Davidson’s dog is in the pool again. You’re better at scolding them than me, sort it out will you.”

 

“Of course dear,” Betty replies. She kisses Jim on the cheek as she leaves, bustling away. She bustles everywhere.

 

“You having a piece of the cherry almond?” Jim enquires. He walks up to the island, standing close to Stiles in a way that is vaguely concerning.

 

“Yes,” Stiles replies slowly. Jim hands him a fork.

 

“Mind if I split it with you,” Jim says, “Been hankering for a piece all day and Betty likes to watch what I eat so that I’m in shape for the country club tennis tournament so I barely get any pie anymore. And I make the damn things.”

 

Jim takes a big bite of pie. His eyes don’t glaze over nor does he exhibit any signs of being affected by siren venom. Stiles figures the pie is probably safe to eat, so he takes a bite because he hasn’t eaten since breakfast and he’s starving. All at once he starts to feel woozy as if overcome with morphine. He sways, knife slipping from his grip. His mind is clouding over, filled with a strange fog. And as he crashes into Jim’s arms, all he can think about is Peter.

 

 

He wakes up tied to a chair. Of course he fucking does. As Stiles blinks back into consciousness, he can smell the sugary sweet scent of pie and possibly his own coppery metallic blood. He certainly can taste copper in his mouth. His eyes adjust to the lack of light, which allows the outline of Jim to swim into view. He seems to be singing. It sounds suspiciously like Summertime Sadness.

 

“Ah, there we are, come on little spark,” Jim coos, tilting Stiles head up, “Come back to the land of the living. There we are.”

 

He lets go of Stiles chin. Stiles coughs before spitting blood onto the floor.  Jim grimaces.

 

“If we could keep all bodily fluids inside where they belong I’d be most grateful.”

 

“Fuck you,” Stiles grunts, spitting again out of spite. Jim tuts, waving a finger at Stiles like he’s a naughty puppy who’s peed in the house.

 

“Firstly, we don’t use that kind of language in this house. Secondly, I’m not incubus; there will be no coitus here. In fact I’m asexual.”

 

“Really? Does you wife know?” Stiles asks sarcastically. Jim laughs. It’s vicious and cruel. It twists his features into a sneer.

“Betty, she’s blissfully unaware of what I am. Makes for the perfect cover. So devotedly Catholic that she doesn’t believe in divorce. But not catholic enough that getting a bit on the side doesn't bother her; well as long as it keeps her out of my hair and allows me to feed then I’m not too fussed.”

 

Jim leans into Stiles space, sniffing him. His eyes darken in lust, pupils expanding until the whole eye is completely black. Stiles tries to lean away but the back for the chair restricts his movement. He’s handcuffed at the wrists and ankles and there’s a chain across his waist for good measure.

 

“Now, now, little spark,” Jim, coos, gripping Stiles chin to hold him in place, “This won’t hurt, in fact you’ll probably enjoy it. I can sing to send you under. You won’t feel a thing.”

 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Peter’s voice drifts over Jim’s shoulder. Stiles heart rate, which has been pretty steady all things considered, speeds up. Jim whips round, claws digging into Stiles chin. Stiles hisses in pain.

 

“Why not wolf?” Jim taunts, “Afraid your little boy toy will break. He is a pretty thing; I can see why you chose him to be your fake husband. I bet he tastes even better.” Jim then licks Stiles blood from his clawed fingers, moaning obscenely. Stiles gags.

 

“That’s disgusting.”

 

“Just my nature,” Jim retorts. Both hands are curled into long, golden talons. “We can’t ignore our nature.”

 

“You could try,” Stiles suggests. He’s nearly out of the cuffs on his wrists. Luckily they’re not magic binding so unlocking them is fairly simple. All he needs is for Peter to distract Jim long enough for Stiles to stab him with the back up knife hidden in his sock.

 

“Touch him again,” Peter says, words slurred around his fangs, his claws lengthening, “And I won’t be responsible for my actions.”  

 

Jim places a talon on the end of Stiles nose. Peter roars and leaps. Jim and Peter clash in mid air, talons and claws clashing. They move too fast for Stiles eyes to process but it sounds horrendous. Clothes rip, skin tearing, bones cracking and resetting. Peter’s roars are loud and violent. Stiles struggles against his bindings, willing them to unlock. Peter is slammed against a wall, causing it to crack. Jim stands above him, eyes glittering malevolently.

 

Jim opens his mouth but no sound comes out. At least not a sound that Stiles can hear. Peter’s hands are clamped over his ears and he’s howling, as if trying to drown out whatever Jim is doing. Deaton’s higher frequencies thing makes sense. Peter is evidently in pain, tears are threatening to cascade from the corner of his eyes. Stiles magic starts to overflow, like a pan left boiling for too long. The handcuffs and chain snap as if made of paper and the only light bulb in the room shatters. Stiles retrieves the knife from his sock, running up behind Jim and slitting his throat. Jim crumples, icky green blood oozing from his slit throat. Stiles kicks the body away, pretending not to be satisfied when he hears a rib crack.

 

Peter looks up at him, blinking away tears. Stiles is breathing heavily, adrenalin and magic pumping through his veins. His irises are probably a strange amethyst color right now.

 

“Are you ok?” Stiles asks. Peter gets to his feet, ripping off the remainder of his tattered silk shirt. And wow, shirtless Peter is not exactly a bad image. Arousal is probably not the best emotion to be having near a dead body but Peter doesn’t look at all put off. He grabs Stiles, pulling him close and kissing him tenderly as if Stiles is about to break.

 

“Did he hurt you?” Peter asks, running the tips of his fingers over the shallow talon marks in Stiles chin. Stiles shakes his head.

 

“I’m ok,” Stiles, murmurs, leaning in to kiss Peter again. Peter growls, nipping at Stiles bottom lip. They break apart pretty quickly.

 

“We should probably get rid of the body,” Peter says, his thumb rubbing across Stiles cheek.

 

“Yes, that might be a good idea,” Stiles replies. Peter rests his forehead against Stiles before placing a tender kiss upon it.

 

“Then afterwards, perhaps a proper date,” Peter, suggests, “Care to have dinner with me?”

 

“Thought you’d never ask.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Come Prompt Me](http://ladypigswagon.tumblr.com)


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